


Retirement

by Fabrisse



Category: Blade Runner (1982)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabrisse/pseuds/Fabrisse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zhora's take on how they got to this moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retirement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ade/gifts).



> Death is discussed. This is neither graphic nor gratuitous, but could trigger. There is some foul language.

The difference between humans and the animals is the knowledge of death.

Animals kill to eat, for their own survival, and, maybe, they have some inkling that there is a future and in it they'll be food for some other species just trying to survive.

It takes a human to know that death will come inexorably -- no matter if you survive today, no matter how well you play the game, and I think it's Go even if Roy thinks it's chess -- death wins. When the death penalty was finally gone from the civilized world, the rulings all came down to its cruelty. Some lawyers had argued against the process, but the argument that won all the cases, finally, was that knowing the moment your death would come was inherently cruel.

So what of us? We know what we are programmed to know. For Leon, that's not much. For Pris, it's sex. For Roy, it's survival. For me, it's death. If I did my mission right, you died. But I didn't tell you what or who would kill you -- me -- I didn't tell you how, where, or why. Most importantly, I never told you when. Your time was up and I was the instrument.

Leon has no memory to speak of; he's programmed to intellect C. And yet he _sees_. He can frame what he sees and make the camera take a picture of a moment. What could he be if he had a lifetime to pursue it?

A four year old dies on Earth, and everyone mourns the loss of the potential.

A four year old replicant dies on Ganymede, and everyone's relieved.

Fuck that.

Fuck death.

Fuck no choices.

I hate killing.

They programmed and regulated me perfectly. My body is a marvel, certainly others have told me so, but it's a marvel to _me._ The joy I get from movement -- stretching muscles beyond my limit, the rhythms of my body, from breathing to heartbeat to bloodflow -- are inexplicable, personal, sensual.

And all they let me do with this perfection is kill.

Fuck. That.

Now, Pris, she has the killer instinct. Her body is also made for use, but it's not like she can take all the sex and turn it into a baby. No babies for us, born sterile, born programmed, born to die too soon because emotions aren't allowed.

Pris's body can stretch, too, but they made her so sensitive to touch, so primed for sex, that a soft whisper against her ear can make her come. Then they turn loose dozens of space workers, soldiers, and roughnecks and wonder why she isn't happy in her work. Her endocrine system is balanced to crave sex -- a programmed nymphomaniac -- and her nervous system is so over tuned, she can't stand to take a shower because the sensations are too much.

So she hates. She asked me to show her how to kill, how to take out men. I did it gladly because passion will light up a human being -- or a replicant -- and give them a better sense of purpose than all the programming and genetic manipulation and fucking endocrine balancing put together. Pris can kill with her thighs, perfectly made to wrap around the hips of the man plowing into her with no consideration. She gasps and smiles at the feel of their hair against her nerve endings, taking pleasure from their shuddering deaths.

Roy was made to survive. It sounds so simple. Finely tuned like Pris, but without the damned hormone skew -- he's also perfectly regulated like me. Our bodies are efficient, but my genetic intelligence and programming was set to death -- at least those of other people, and Roy's was set to preserve life.

His own comes first. After all, they were aiming for the perfect soldier. They didn't think it through, though. If his life is so worth preserving, wouldn't he start thinking about other life? All life? The lives of those strangers he and I are sent to kill?

Me, I don't care. Killing doesn't bring me joy, but using myself well does. Some days, the kill was the best part.

Whatever they did to give him that level A intellect rebounded in a way. He plays beautiful chess -- well, why not, his inferior superiors think, strategy will help him be the perfect survivor. Go will reinforce the importance of strategy. Instead, chess taught him that fighting might be futile unless you're willing to change the game. Go was the game he changed to, because it was the game of infinite possibility.

He thought of ways and means. He dreamed of Earth as Earthers dream of new planets to despoil. And always the dream led us back to sharing our humanity by knowing we were going to die, but not knowing when. His dream was Earth then Los Angeles then Tyrell then life.

Between us, we killed twenty-six people to find our way to our ancestral home. We share your mitochondria even if our DNA is cobbled.

Pris taught me to dance. I taught her to fight. Roy and I both taught her gentleness. Maybe she's learned about kindness and love, too.

Leon came up with one plan to get Tyrell, and the rest of us taught him the pride of being respected. It wasn't his fault our shuttle was found so he could be found out.

And I found a snake. It's a replicant like me. But it also loves to use its muscles. It clings close for warmth, and I can feel those muscles playing against mine and for those minutes on stage, I don't have to worry about the lewd stares -- other than to make sure the audience is pleased enough to want me back -- I can just enjoy the play of muscles, the harmony between the snake and me, our bodies entwining. Every night it's different, but every night I love what my body can do.

***  
I know something is wrong when I see him. It's subtle at first, but it keeps nagging at me. Nudity doesn't mean I'm unarmed, but it could mean that he's unmanned for a few minutes -- enough time to get the snake and get out and…

Too late.

I know I'm going to die tonight, but right now the stretch of my legs, the play of my hips, the breath in my lungs, the beat of my heart are all running perfectly.

I love my body.

I love my life.


End file.
